Not Dead

That's right.  I still exist in the blog world.

Last winter, I posted something along the lines of "Just walked twenty miles with bare and bloody feet, uphill both ways, and still don't have a job. But don't worry, DC- I'm back".  And then I stopped blogging for a year.

There are many good reasons for why I spent a year convincing myself that I do not have time to blog- but let's face it: I have time to blog. 

Except right now I'm sitting in my office (it's 1:30 on a Saturday), eating Raisin Bran and Sour Patch Kids, (because I missed breakfast and lunch. And I think we all know what I'll be eating for dinner...) and if I don't finish my work by tonight's deadline, it's going to be a very long night.  So I don't have time right now.

To my three marvelous readers, rest assured that I will make time this week to write.  I need to get stories out of my system, and you need to to hear about how I almost got locked in an abandoned building, ran another marathon, was nearly kidnapped/taken to chil-fil-a by a creepy van-man, survived yet another hurricane, was pursued on bike by a man who wanted directions/a lot more than directions, and ate an entire jar of Biscoff spread in two days.  It's been an exciting 10 months.

I love to laugh.

Is it weird to laugh by yourself?  Laughing isn't a group activity, right?  Then when do I always seem to be telling myself, "come on.... hold it in... don't do it! Don't let out that huge burst of laughter that you are DYING to release because you just saw a middle-aged man in an alley, behind a dumpster, doing tai-bo in his underwear!"  My personal pep-talks never work.  I am that crazy girl who walks around the city, by herself, laughing hysterically.  And don't think that I'm some mean person who finds joy in other people's misfortunes- I tend to be cracking up because I've just spilled juice in my lap.  Or I've just stepped into a puddle that I thought was an inch deep but turned out to have the depth of a small harbor.  Or I've just been pooped on by a large bird. 

Or maybe it's a combination of the three. 

There's nothing worse than getting on the metro during rush hour, stressing over which individual you are going to choose to be your seat-partner for the next 40 minutes (do you go with slightly creepy businessman who looks like he might fall asleep and trap you next to the window, or do you choose the attractive but oddly-smelling Occupy protestor who just may start a 99% chant in your ear?), committing to the seat, and then realizing, once the person starts laughing hysterically at what appears to be nothing, that he or she may be certifiably insane.

Unfortunately, I have become that person. Not the person who is regretting the decision to ever step on the 5:00 train (believe me, that stage has come and gone. I'm way past the whole "I'm too mature for this laughter" act)- I am the one who is shaking uncontrollably because of the conversation I've just overheard on the platform.  Or something I read earlier that day.  Or something someone once told me when I was fourteen and I just remembered how funny it was. I no longer have any shame for personal public laughter.

So next time you find yourself scanning the walls for emergency exits because the person next to you is demonstrating signs of mental instability, be careful.  Either something hilarious is going on in their head- or you are just really funny looking...

(this picture is a great example. I went into this restaurant, sat down under this picture, and smiled- while my friend stood 30 feet away and captured this moment on camera.  Everyone around me wondered why I was smiling at nothing... Do they not realize that Ramses is the bestttt?)

Ridin' Around

After having sole possession of my golden baby, Lucius "Lucy" Camry, for four years, I am now car-less.

And it's never been better.

Owning a car and living in a big city is more hassle than it's worth.  You have to find somewhere to park it every night, you are constantly saving nickels and dimes or picking pennies off the street to save for a later time when you KNOW you're going to be running to feed a meter, gas costs more than $4 a gallon and you have to choose between putting food in your stomach or gas in your car, DC parking police pretty much follow you around the city just waiting for the one time you slip up and park within five feet of a driveway and they have permission to steal your car, and taxis have decided that, to get your attention in stand-still traffic, horns will no longer suffice- they are going to need to nudge your bumper and ruin any previous attempts at owning a dent-free car.

After all this, it's no wonder that I have welcomed public transportation into my life with open arms.  The metro is my best friend.  Not only is it fast, fairly clean, simple to navigate, and mostly reliable, it forces me to walk (to get to the stop.  Or to transfer lines. because I am too cheap to pay to wait for the transfer station), meet new people (best place to have a conversation.  they're stuck sitting there next to you with nowhere to run), catch up on reading, or simply take a power nap.  When I was little, the metro was my second-favorite part about DC (my first was the carousel on the mall. Obviously) - and not much has changed.  Sometimes I miss my stop on purpose and keep riding the metro for fun.  That's embarrassing. Can't believe I just admitted that.

Anyways, my story today is clearly about the metro.  I was waiting for the metro a few nights ago, during rush hour, and the trains were single-tracking... meaning that every single person in the entire city (practically) was waiting with me on the platform.  The train finally arrived and I shoved into a car with half of DC... only to realize (once the doors shut) that the AC was out in that specific car.  Sweat started beading up on my forehead and unpleasant smells began to crop up all around me - I knew I was going to have to make a mad-dash for the next car once we got to the next station.  We pulled up at Dupont, the doors slid open, and I pushed through the crowds.  I made it to the next car just in time, slipping through the doors and noticing that the back of the car was completely empty.  I started back towards the open section and lovely cold air engulfed me-as well as the scent of puke.  Someone had thrown up all over the back end of the car.  No wonder this car was empty.  Naturally, the smell of puke makes me want to throw up- so I enjoyed a lovely two minute ride to the next station without breathing.   As soon as the train stopped (again), I sprinted off towards the next car, praying that I wouldn't find anything worse than my previous two experiences.  And this is what I found:

I love this city.   Even after sweaty-pits car and vomit-stench car, my whole day was brightened by the random potted plant in car #3.  Small moments like this happen all the time- we just need to stop and appreciate them.

This experience reminded me of a wonderful quote by Jenkin Lloyd Jones, relayed by President Gordon B. Hinckley:

“Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he has been robbed.

“[The fact is] most putts don’t drop. Most beef is tough. Most children grow up to be just people. Most successful marriages require a high degree of mutual toleration. Most jobs are more often dull than otherwise. …

“Life is like an old-time rail journey—delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed.

“The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride"


I love my life.  The past few months have proven to be a "jolting, delayed, and sidetracked" ride - and I don't expect much to change in the coming months.  The trick is to stay positive, continue to work hard, have goals, and find joy in the small things.  Like potted plants.

I'm Back

Today I walked over four miles in dress shoes and a pencil skirt.

No, I'm not training for some twisted business-themed race. Not even close.

At the end of my long day, as I found myself trudging uphill in the pouring down rain, barefoot and leaving bloodstains on the pavement from multiple open blisters, holding a blown inside-out umbrella and trying in vain to shield my brand-new purse from the water, I couldn't help but laugh.

I had a lot of time to ponder what I would like to say to the people in charge of making Naturalizer's so called "comfy shoes", the good folks at the umbrella company, the adhesive specialists over at Band-Aid, the geniuses who determined the location of a certain metro stop, and whoever decided to make it rain at 4:47 pm - but in the end, I only have words for an old friend:

Dear Washington, DC,
I'm Back.
Watch Out.

Me and Meg. So excited to live with her.  And yes, there is  now a Cafe Rio in DC.
It is now officially the coolest place on earth.

One if by land, Two if by sea.

 There’s a wonderful song that my brothers enjoy singing at the top of their lungs—it sounds like a drunk pirate yelling, over and over, “I’m shippin out to Boston, ohh ohh ohh, to find my wooden LEG”. Well, we shipped out to Boston, alright. The five hour drive turned into an eight-hour, two-car, million-luggage, bajillion bathroom-stop journey. And we found more than wooden body parts. Like a Five-star hotel in downtown Boston (for the parents…. The less-privileged children stayed in the semi-ghetto. But in my parents’ defense, they gave us a huge room. No complaining there), week-long subway passes, Red Sox tickets, historical sites galore, witch-hunt education, and tons of great family-bonding time.

Some of my favorite moments:

*Five of the seven children wearing Phillies jerseys while walking the Freedom Trail in downtown Boston THE DAY OF the Sox game. We learned many things from this experience:

1) Red Sox fans are super nice—no boos, catcalls, or threats all day! We were impressed.

2) There are a lot of Phils fans in Boston. We got tons of support.

3) There is no way to lose your family if 5 of the 7 kids are wearing bright red shirts—you can spot them in a crowded square from a mile away. The British were really stupid to wear red. And now I understand how people can always find me so quickly in a crowd.

*Going to Fenway to see a Sox game. Even with the two-hour rain delay, the park was completely full. Seeing the Green Monster up close, participating in a wave that went around the stadium FIVE times, starting “let’s go Phils” chants in right field, seeing Ellsbury hit a walk-off single in the bottom of the ninth, and spending five hours with my brothers and dad was definitely the highlight of my trip.

*Awkward 30-floor elevator rides with strangers—we all competed for the most awkward story: I rode twenty floors with a man who slumped over the railing, claiming to be “completely trashed” at nine pm, and my mother scolded a man for thinking I was the mother of my three younger sisters (resulting in a completely silent elevator ride for the next two minutes)—but the winner of the most awkward elevator-incident would have to be my brother, who got into a completely full elevator on the twenty-seventh floor, passed gas, and then proceeded to ride down to the lobby without stopping. According to him, the entire elevator emptied as soon as the doors opened and people were “literally gasping for breath.” I don’t doubt it.

*Walking the entire Freedom Trail. That trail was the source of a lot of jokes during the week (“I’m lost and can’t find my way around the hotel—there’s no red paint leading me to the pool” or “I feel so Free. F-R-E-E that spells free…” or “this trail is hardcore. Hardcore PARKOUR”) –but our trip wouldn’t have been the same without those 2.5 miles of historical significance. Even my grumbling brothers will admit that some of those sites were pretty cool. My favorite stop was the Holocaust Memorial, which gave a sober reminder of why we celebrate living in a country that was founded on freedom and still protects our liberties today.

Paul Revere's Tomb

*Early morning runs around the city, the harbor, and Harvard University. I loved running in the city—and Harvard was beautiful.

*Our nightly Panda Express feasts in the food court—yes, we went all the way to Boston and ate fast-food. We are uncultured.

*Midnight Subway rides every night with thousands of Red Sox fans.

*Swimming in our lovely hotel pools and antagonizing the poor hotel employee who reminded us every few minutes that jumping was not allowed. I’m not sure who came up with that insane rule, but it was entertaining to watch her try to stop three teenage boys and three rambunctious little girls from jumping into a very inviting swimming pool.

It was an incredible trip. I’m glad my parents were brave enough to take us—we haven’t all been invited on one of my dad’s business trips in quite some time (can’t imagine why). It was so much fun to be together as a family. I love all of them. And I want to go back to Boston. But I’m flying next time—you couldn’t pay me to sit for three hours in NYC traffic again…

The Grand Finale

Eventually I will stop writing about things that happened a month ago and actually live in the present. But I just have to write about one of the more significant events of my summer/life: the final Harry Potter movie midnight showing. I’m pretty sure that I’ve seen every single HP movie on opening day (if not the midnight showing)—in fact, one of my favorite memories of seventh grade was the day my best friend’s mom checked me out of school early and drove my friend and I up to PA to see the first HP movie at a special premiere showing. Once a nerd, always a nerd.

I like to think that I’ve matured since my awkward pre-teen years, but I’m sorry to report that my desire to wait in line with hundreds of other geeks (wearing cloaks, hand-made wands, eye-liner scars, and fake glasses) to see a movie about “the boy who lived” has not waned. Not in the slightest. If anything, the ten-year waiting span has only increased my weirdness. The sad part about this whole thing is that I usually don’t even like the movies. My brothers can attest to the fact that I usually emerge from the theater disgruntled, quoting large passages from the books and pointing out gaping holes in the movie plotlines. The movies are terrible.

The real issue is simple: I am a true HP fanatic. And I have definitely read the books way too many times. You know there is something truly wrong with you when you start assuming that the guy at the grocery store with a tattoo on his left forearm has been branded with the dark mark, that the pounding headache you’ve had for the past three nights is probably a sign that Voldemort is coming back, and that the weird language being spoken by the bum next to you on the subway is definitely parseltounge. It’s been over ten years of suspense and adventure, but it’s time to hang up my Harry Potter beach towel and mini-backpack and shelve my seven weathered books. The final movie couldn’t have come at a better time—with my graduation from college and my official entrance into adulthood, it’s time to bid farewell to my childhood obsession (much to the relief of my mother, who remarked quite seriously as she took “privet drive” pictures of me and my brother the night of the midnight showing, “you are a fool. No one is going to marry you”…). So it is with slight trepidation, some sadness, but mostly fond reminiscence that I say goodbye to Harry and friends.

Expecto Patronum.

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Happy Belated Fourth of July

I live 20 miles south of Philadelphia, home to Independence Hall, The Liberty Bell, the Rocky statue, and pretty much every other reason for why we celebrate the fourth of July.  I also live two hours from Washington, DC, our nation’s Capital and host to one of the most exciting fireworks displays EVER.  So where do you think I was on the eve of Independence Day?

My driveway.

That’s right.  That is my family (minus a brother, who is currently boy scouting it up in Cape Cod, and my dad, who does not condone such frivolity as illegal firework displays), sitting on the driveway, surrounded by tiki torches, with blankets and lawnchairs, celebrating the fourth of July “Jones- style.”

Fireworks aren’t exactly legal where I live.  Lucky for us, we live within a few short miles of THREE other states—so an unnamed family member literally drove three miles to another state and picked up some “groceries.”  But don’t worry, she doesn’t buy the super dangerous ‘explode in the air’ kind—which is exactly what she was telling our neighbor as sparks started flying 30 feet in the air… 

I love my family.

The rest of my holiday was pretty uneventful—my four year old sister walked around the house humming Tchaicovsky’s 1812 overture all day, complete with cannon blasts; my nine year old sister tried to convince me that her history teacher taught her that we celebrate the fourth of July because it’s the day we won a war; my six year old sister has officially shattered my hopes and dreams of being the family gymnast by proving that she can do the splits in any direction, including straight up in the air, (far surpassing my unique and advanced ability to do an unaided tripod headstand); and my dad was partially electrocuted. Three times.

While my family was enjoying the lights and sparkles out on the driveway, my dad was having a fireworks display of his own indoors.  The recessed lighting in our family room has been broken for weeks now and my dad figured out that the real problem was the wiring in the light switch’s dimmer.  So instead of calling an electrician, he went to Lowes, bought a replacement, and tried to fix it himself.  I walked in to find him in a completely dark house (luckily he had turned the power off) with a reading lamp attached to his belt, wearing a latex glove and wiggling some tools around in a mess of copper and aluminum wires.  I took over the job of electrician’s assistant and warily watched as my dad proceeded to shock himself repeatedly as he replaced the dimmer.  After an agonizing struggle with some live wires, he finally finished, screwed in the outer switchplate, turned the power back on, and came back to the family room for the moment of truth…

It worked!  My dad is a genius.  He can fix anything.  He started jumping around the room with both fists raised in the victory position—and in a moment of excitement and stupidity, I yelled “whooooo!!!!” and flipped the dimmer’s switch up and down (to flicker the lights… in the same motion that probably broke the silly thing in the first place)—resulting in my dad whipping around and giving me the ultimate glare of death. Oops.

I love America.  My littlest sister remarked (as she ate her hamburger), “Me love fourth of July!”, and I agree. I love celebrating Independence Day, and not just because of the delicious barbeque.  I love living in a free country.  I am so grateful for those who fought for our freedom long ago and for those who continue to protect us today.  I am especially grateful for the strong families of these brave men and women and admire them for their support and sacrifices.  God Bless the USA!